


mein t-shirt riecht nach deinem parfum

by horseboyej (wafflesandpancakes)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Kinda, M/M, Mpreg, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Esteem Issues but also not really, Teammates fucking, that's a fitting tag, this is really hard to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29849184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wafflesandpancakes/pseuds/horseboyej
Summary: A loud night in a club, people celebrating, laughing and dancing. In the middle of them our protagonist, about to make a mistake. Maybe.
Relationships: Leon Draisaitl/Matthew Tkachuk (mentioned), Tim Stützle/Brady Tkachuk
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	mein t-shirt riecht nach deinem parfum

**Author's Note:**

> yeah. i don't know. i just love the pairing okay.  
> set in a non-covid universe, if it isn't obvious.
> 
> have fun reading it!

It’s not as if he hasn’t seen him before - He has, and he’s impressed. Really. The qualities in this man are unbelievable, he’s talented, kind, a fighter… He seems to be happy all day and night, and everyone seems to like him. There’s just a small difference - he has viewed him as an idol before, later as a teammate, it's Brady Tkachuk for fucks sake, but never like this, so pure, so open, so… yeah, maybe tipsy as he is now. He has never seen him as a suitor, one night stand or whatever, yet they’re standing close together in this overcrowded club, the music drumming in his ears.

“Let me take you home tonight.”

Usually, he would have said no. He’s not someone to score at a party, he needs to be conquered. It has been that way with his former boyfriends, they needed to fight for his attention. But here he is, ready to throw all his rules over board for one guy he kind of knows but not really, and who probably only wants to get into his pants. Still, he’s inclined.

“Try again.”

The other one looks to be taken aback by that, confusion written all over his face. It makes him think that probably none of his other flirts talked back before. And maybe, just maybe, it makes him smirk as he leans back against the pillar. He’s allowed to be smug.

“What?”

“Try again.”

“I want to take you home.”

“Still not there, _Süßer_.”

The confusion is replaced - or maybe accompanied? - by frustration, but he knows the other enough to know that he won’t back off. They’re athletes, they like a challenge. Therefore, it doesn’t surprise him when he presses him against the pillar, hands next to his head.

“What’s the issue then? Am I not nice enough?”

“You’re not polite enough.”

It seems to light up something in his not-quite-drunken brain. Finally. He kind of wants to get out of here.

“May I please take you home?”

He leans forward, not enough for their lips to meet but enough to feel the other’s breath on them.

“You may.”

He didn’t expect the rented apartment to be so nice. Not that he doesn’t trust the other when it comes to style, but it still exceeds his imagination, with the dark wooden floor, warm under his feet, the grey-ish walls, the slight industrial chic to it. Metal mixed with wood in a dark environment, even a brick wall in the kitchen - it’s so different from what he has expected, but it’s pretty, quite calming even. The bedroom isn’t worse, it’s better in fact: The bed is huge with grey sheets and white blankets and pillows; the moon is lighting up the room through the huge window on the side which leads onto the balcony. There’s a suitcase in the corner, unopened, ignored. It doesn’t seem as if the other has spent a lot of time regarding his clothes - or anything else for that matter - the past days.

“Do you want to undress yourself or do you want me to do it?”

There’s something exciting in undressing for him without him being able to touch, but that’s not really what he wants right now. He wants to be touched, he wants to be worshipped, and that’s what he knows the other will give him if he asks nicely enough.

“You.”

Brady steps into his space, hands immediately under his to be honest rather flimsy shirt, and it’s off in no time, all free space for the older one to roam, to touch, to squeeze. It makes him shiver and gasp, excitement spreading through his body. His mouth opens for a silent moan when teeth scrape his nipple before lips around it, gently sucking on it. His hands bury themselves in the Brady's hair, not pushing him away, not pushing him closer. The older one moves off with a wet plop and a grin on his lips, taking a step away to take his shirt off, and while he knew how good he looks just from pictures, to have him stand in front of him, half-naked, does something to him. In the end, the other isn’t exactly ugly anyway.

“How about you get on your knees for me?”

“How about you rephrase that for me?”

The older one rolls his eyes, but Tim can see that there’s a smile tugging on his lips. So he  _ is _ into this.

“Please get on your knees, I would love to fuck your mouth.”

“See? Easy.”

He sinks onto his knees as elegantly as he can in this state between half-drunk and completely sober, looking up to meet the American’s eyes. They keep looking at each other as he opens his pants and pulls them down. He’s  _ big _ , bigger than expected, and he finds no shame in the way his mouth waters. It’s been a while.

“Please.”

Someone has learned their manners then. He wastes no time to get his mouth on the dick in front of him, getting it to full hardness, and then there’s a hand in his hair, keeping him in place. He knows what follows next, so he takes a deep breath once he’s pulled off, steading himself on the other’s thighs. There is a reason why he’s quite experienced, he knows how this works, but this time around, it does catch him by surprise. It’s different than other guys - maybe because there is more experienced involved this way in comparison to the other guys he let fuck him - it’s more gentle in a way, as if he is holding back, but just from the sounds Brady makes he knows he isn’t. It’s his way of ensuring both himself and his partner the same amount of pleasure. It’s… quite nice, if Tim’s being honest. To be cared for without exactly being cared for.

“Fuck, your mouth is good.”

It’s not the first time Tim has heard someone say it, but it’s the first time someone said it with so much pleasure, so honest. It makes him feel warm and fuzzy, and he knows he blushes from the way his cheeks grow hot, unsure if the tears in his eyes are from happiness or from the other hitting the back of his throat with a bit more force. He digs his nails into the other’s thighs when it gets a bit too much, and he’s pulled off immediately, catching his breath.

“Which hole?”

“What?”

“Where should I come?”

He lifts an eyebrow. Is he being serious?

“Have you suddenly become stone-old and not able to get it up twice a night?”

The grab on his hair tightens, and it’s pulled back, making him look up, stretching his neck, showing his throat off.

“Feisty.”

“You seem to like it.”

“Get on the bed.”

He scrambles to obey, spreading his legs in a way he knows the other men he’s been with liked, but it only earns him a disapproving look.

“So needy? Really?”

It somehow hits Tim right in the face, and while he considers to have a lot of self-esteem himself, it sneaks under his skin through one of the few cracks in his self-image, going right into his brain. It shouldn’t bother him, but it fucking  _ does _ for fucks sake.

“I- uhm-”

He hopes that Brady doesn’t notice what’s happening. He doesn’t want to be sent back already, back to the empty flat he still hasn't found a home in, so he tries to seem unbothered, the look in the older one’s eyes telling him it’s not enough. He has noticed it. Fuck.

“Are you okay?”

How the fuck is he supposed to answer that  _ now _ when he doesn’t know the fucking answer himself? He looks away, not daring to look at the American, and he tries not to shriek when the bed dips next to him. He’s fucked, isn’t he?

“Come on, sit up. Move a bit.”

He tries to follow the orders, tries not to fall into a not so healthy mindset. It surprises him to a certain amount how easy this man can get under his skin. Not even Leon is able to do it  _ that  _ easily; Leon, who he looks up so dearly too that every chirp drills right into his self-esteem, even though he _knows_ that it's just chirping. He ends up in Brady’s lap, straddling his thighs, and he buries his face in his chest. It feels safe, calming, how they sit there, bodies warming each other.

“You do know you’re hot, right?”

“Duh. I'm fucking jail bait.”

But he’s so much more than that, he’s talented, he’s intelligent, he’s kind, he’s compassionate, he’s always there when his team needs him, he always tries to give it his all. He's a fighter too, just like Brady is.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

“Mh.”

“Tim.”

He sighs and nods against his chest. A quiet form of saying “I accept your apology”.

“Are you still in the mood?”

Sometimes he wonders if the Tkachuks have lost all their brain cells. He has followed Matthew thirsting after Leon for long enough (through Brady; and it's not like Leon _isn't_ thirsting after the older Tkachuk brother) to know that they can’t be  _ that _ intelligent, but this has reached new heights. Maybe he wouldn’t be in the mood if it was another person sitting in front slash under him, but not when it’s Brady fucking Tkachuk. So he nods again, this time lifting his face from his chest.

“How couldn’t I?”

He ends up with his face in the pillows, whining with every thrust, his arms and legs shaking and wanting to give up, but Brady keeps him up, his arm wrapped around his chest while pressing himself against Tim’s back, groaning right into his ear. It has something animalic, something instinct-based, and he lets himself fall into the sensation until the world around him becomes a blur, the only thing his senses picking up being the noises the American makes, his body covering his, the nails of his other hand digging into his hand where it covers it. It’s been a while for him, the sport not leaving any time for hook-ups or proper dating, but Brady made a big deal out of opening him up, seemingly more into the idea of making his partner feel good than into the whole sexual act itself. And it’s not like the German is one to complain about that, he did enjoy it, but he still prefers this, being fucked into the sheets, another guy covering him. Giving up control for once.

“Princess, I- Fuck.”

It seems that Brady is not only good at fucking other people’s brains out but doing so to himself in the process, not being able to form coherent sentences. Instead, his body does the work for him, his thrust faltering but still hitting spot on every time, making Tim screaming into the pillows as he comes. It only takes the other one or two thrusts more before he comes too with a groan, biting into his shoulder. He knows he has to explain it to at least half of the team tomorrow but it doesn’t matter now. Something to worry about later.

They fall asleep soon after, and it’s only in the morning that he notices how sore he feels, come dried on his thighs, what a mess the bed is, and how Brady looks as if a tiger has mauled him. He decides on a shower, getting rid of the sweat, the faint smell of club and alcohol, soothing his muscles just enough to be a bit more comfortable. Brady is in the kitchen when he steps out, a towel wrapped around his waist, and it’s Brady who drives him to the flat, parking a few streets away so no one sees Tim on his Walk of Shame away from Brady's car. They part with a kiss and the promise of going to lunch together, of Brady showing him Ottawa a bit, of maybe repeating the night, even though they know it’s smarter to stick to a one night stand.

_ It’s smarter to stick to a one night stand _ .

That exact thought keeps playing like a mantra in his hand as he sits on the bathroom floor at his family home in Germany, the cold tiles beneath his feets sending shivers down his spine. It’s warm outside, he’s only in a pair of shorts, and he’s supposed to be outside, enjoying the weather, but it’s not that easy when the white and blue plastic piece in his hand is weighing so heavily on his mood. It proves that his inner voice has been right the past month or so, it proves that he fucked up. He looks up from it, tears starting to flow down his cheeks, letting the words continue to play in his head while new words join them, starting to cause him a headache.

_ Positive. 3+ _

God, he’s so fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a work of fiction. i do not own any of the characters. 
> 
> i hope you liked it :)


End file.
